The Watsons
by kaeyes
Summary: Sherlock wakes up in hospital able to recall everything and everyone. When he sees John, however, his memory assigns him a unique role that is a far stretch from flatmate.
1. Chapter 1

John floated towards the hospital room, doing all he could to prevent a full blown sprint. _Seven hours_, he thought, cursing himself. Sherlock was knocked out seven hours ago by lower class criminals, and John was just now arriving. He'd never hear the end of it.

To be fair, he'd been across town running errands with his wife. Important errands. Grocery shopping, dental appointments, quick coffee stops with old acquaintances. Wow that sounded like a hideous defense. Sherlock likely wouldn't take domestic responsibilities as a valid excuse for his tardiness, but nothing could be done now. He simply hadn't noticed the twelve texts and nine calls from Greg.

Lestrade. The saint had finally caught him on the phone an hour ago, only briefly explaining that Sherlock had wandered off his crime scene in solo pursuit of robbers, only to be outdone.

"But he's fine?" John had asked, his coffee cup already in the trash can and Mary already following his heels. All the worry he would have experienced had he known earlier latched onto his shoulders and atop his chest.

Greg hesitated, but only for a moment. "Well, yeah. Physically."

"What on earth does that mean, physically?" John checked the panic in his voice. They were clear across town, at least forty minutes from Bart's. Panic wouldn't do any good.

"The doctors and I have been talking to him, you know, to test his memory and whatnot. Everything seems fine, but he's getting some facts confused." John could practically hear Greg biting his lip as the inspector debated what to say next. "John…I don't think he remembers you."

John had stopped running, then, leaning against his already hailed cab for support. He tried to swallow the bitterness in his mouth. Why did this have to happen now, only a day after the ex-flat-mates had the worst fight of their friendship? Only a day after John had walked in on a gruesome experiment and, strained from work and compressed from domesticity, had uttered the one thing he'd sworn never to say.

_Freak_.

The look on Sherlock's face was one he never wished to see again, much less cause.

John snapped back as he heard talking on the other end of the phone. "…and his answers are just off, that's all, and he swears he doesn't know anyone named John. But when I ask him what his name is, he—"

"Alright, alright. We're on our way."

And now, finally, he was here, greeted by a clearly burned out inspector. Greg lit up when he saw the doctor but moved his body in front of the door and put a hand up. "John. Listen, before you see him, we need to talk about his condition."

"Greg, please. I know you've been here all night but I'll deal with the doctors later. Mary will be here in a bit; she can deal with the logistics. Just let me see him. Please."

The man shuffled his weight, opposed but too tired to fight. "Go on, but listen. He's already seen several psychologists, and they say it's best for now we just go along with his created reality. Go easy on him and try not to look too surprised when—"

John had nodded his agreement but was already halfway through the door, rubbing a worn hand through his dry, thinning hair. He took a deep breath behind the blocking wall, composing himself before Sherlock was able to see him. He'd dealt with loads of patients before, medical and psychological. Seeing Sherlock battered up would prove difficult, but it was far from rare.

So he stepped out, purposely putting a bit of spring in his step and holding his head just a tad higher than natural, but the façade soon faded.

A cast on his left arm, a bandage along his forehead, an IV coiled around his shoulder. If possible he looked thinner, maybe even shorter. His frowzy hair desperately needing a wash and, even though his eyes were momentarily glued to the television screen, John thought he noticed more than an ounce of pain hiding behind the dilated pupils. But he'd no time to dwell on the idea. Sherlock soon turned his attention to him and, unknowingly releasing thousands of loads of worry from John's shoulders, smiled. His eyes seemed to say, _oh, good, now you're here so everything must be okay_. Talking must have been painful, but no matter. He was too excited at John's presence, too relieved, and fervently forced the syllable out with no regret as the very person he'd been dying to see had finally arrived.

"Dad!"

* * *

**So this just sort of...happened. If you think it's worth continuing please shoot me a review, I'd be happy to expand!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys, thanks for the reviews! Here's more, as promised. I'm kind of excited about where I want to take this, but here's a fair warning that while I'll update as frequently and consistently as possible, I'm making no promises :) But I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Well that wasn't right.

John clutched the machine next to him for support, wondering if his face was as white as he suspected; from the furrow in Sherlock's brow, he assumed so. The doctor took a deep breath, kicking himself for not letting Greg explain, unsure how on earth he was supposed to _just_ _go with it_.

But his reaction was immediately and inevitably noticed; Sherlock frowned, rubbing his hands together at a lost. Physically weak, yes, but perceptions were high. "Did…did I do something wrong?"

John tried not to take a step back at the innocence. "No. No, Sherlock, no. I just, uh, wasn't sure what to expect. You know? I was just worried. You're pretty beat up."

The detective seemed to read John for a moment but eventually nodded. John tried not to stare as Sherlock groaned, readjusting himself in the hospital bed.

"Listen, Greg said you've already talked to a few doctors and psychologists, but would you mind answering some questions for me? If you just want to rest, it's fine, but I want to know exactly where you are so I can help you the most. Make sense?"

"Greg?"

John cleared his throat and called for the inspector, who tiptoed in carefully. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You mean Lestrade."

The two men chuckled. Some things never change.

John pulled up a rigid chair and did his best to get comfortable. "Okay, so you know Lestrade."

"Of course." Sherlock checked his know-it-all tone by glancing the doctor's way and quickly averting his eyes.

Interesting.

"He works at Scotland Yard with Donovan and Anderson," he continued.

"And your relationship with them is…?"

"Consulting detective. Solving murders, kidnappings, and the like. Though I prefer my freelance cases."

John nodded and looked at Greg for support, but he only poured himself a glass of water and tried to look comfortable. "Good. And I'm…?"

"My father." Sherlock offered a slight smile. "I understand the need to check my memory, Dad, but I wouldn't forget you."

"No, I don't suppose you would. What about your mum?"

Jaw set and eyes steeled over as Sherlock looked away. "She died." He shifted his weight. "I admit this part of my memory is a bit fuzzy. But step-mum is fine, too. I like her."

Something was lacking in his eyes, or maybe something that had always been there was now rising to the surface. Either way John recognized it only as innocence, as childlike wonder and a desire to please, to understand, to impress. The candid acceptance that death was real, and it was personal. The situation may have been fabricated but the pain, clearly, was not.

John felt a pang of pity but smiled, too, knowing that Mary would laugh at being seen as Sherlock's mother figure. She already acted as such, pointing out fibs and demanding manners. Suddenly John was aware of his own roles, of regulating sleep and food, of acting as a social radar. Was Sherlock's conceived reality really that far off?

"Will you take me home?"

"Tonight. Just a few more tests, bud."

Sherlock fidgeted. "The staff here doesn't know what they're doing. They've got my chart all wrong."

"Oh?" John grabbed the file and flipped through it. "What's wrong with it?"

"Well for one, my last name's wrong. It's Watson, not...Holmes, whatever that is. And look at my age. They accidentally put a three in front of the eight."

Lestrade spat out his water.

"What should be in front of it?" John asked.

"Well that's a silly question."

"Yeah, but humor me."

"Well, nothing."

Greg stood and cleared his throat. "John, can I see you in the hall? I think Mary's probably here by now." He excused themselves and found Mary talking insurance with a nurse.

Yep. Definitely a mother.

The men filled her in on the situation. Exhausted, Lestrade sat himself on a gurney. "He thinks he's _eight_, John. Eight, and running around crime scenes."

"Forget the decency, Greg. He obviously thinks he still lives at home." John ran his fingers through his hair. "What are we supposed to do? Create a bedroom for him? Quit my job to look after him?"

Mary giggled, putting her hand on her hip when John glared. "Well, look, I don't think it's that big a problem. I'm already staying at home to take care of Allison, and you hardly work fulltime at the clinic anymore."

Oh.

Allison.

His _actual_ daughter. Actually dependent. Three years old. Currently with the babysitter.

Did Sherlock know about her?

John groaned. "How am I supposed to follow his reality when I don't even know exactly what that is? What about his real parents? And oh goodness, Mycroft! What about Mrs. Hudson, and Molly? He thinks his father lets him dissect bodies and run experiments at _eight years old_! I know I'm not a psychologist, but wouldn't it be better to explain the truth to him now instead of watching it crumble as he realizes what really goes on?"

"It's got to be a coping mechanism." Greg shrugged. "Has to be. You're his father because, for some reason unbeknownst to us, that's what he needs you to be right now. If you want to find out the reason, you go along with it."

John glanced at the bedroom's door then back to his wife. "I don't know."

"We'll make it work. Besides," she said, kissing him on the forehead, "You've always wanted a son."


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson knew how to handle Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson. Army doctor, adrenaline junkie, blogger. He could handle unruly the detective like no other without the blink of an eye. Goodness, he'd lived through war, through his best friend's death, through rather unconventional marriage issues. Life could and had crumbled around him, but he stood tall. Loyal despite emotions and insane stressors. Nothing shook him, nothing wavered.

But when an innocent detective nuzzled his head into his shoulder during the cab ride home, he found himself at a lost. Just a little.

And when the man-child insisted that, no, they didn't live here but in 221B, he flinched through a rather circular argument about the new location (_yes, Baker Street is home, but we also have this place. You just don't remember moving because of your fall. It's normal._). But only slightly.

And when Sherlock, arm casted and forehead scraped, plopped onto the floor and avidly watched daytime television, he was at a loss for words. To an extent.

But now, when Mary appeared out of the second bedroom with a small child clutching her hand, and Sherlock made _that_ face, John was rattled. Period.

Sherlock leaned against the edge of the couch and clutched his accent pillow a bit tighter. Eyebrows furrowed and throat swallowed. With a concentrated glance at the girl, Sherlock cleared his throat and flicked his eyes towards John. "Who's that?"

"Sherlock," Mary said gently, sitting on the couch and putting the girl in her lap, "This is Allison. Do you remember her?"

John's nose and dirty blonde hair. Mary's ceramic skin. Shy but sparkling blue eyes. Sherlock ran his eyes over her, reasoning that the girl was roughly three though already possessing the loyalty of her father and attitude of her mother. She was likely average in her development—no signs of brilliance or monotony—and enjoyed nothing more than reading on her father's lap.

But he only shook his head, glancing again at John with thin pools forming in his eyes. "I don't remember my own sister," he said, voice hoarse.

John joined him on the floor and put an arm around him. Goodness, this was weird.Yet he reflected on how natural comforting the detective felt, wondering when this alternative lifestyle would end. It felt oddly comfortable, right. Yes, the doctor was rattled, unsure how to handle the situation and unprepared in what was to come, but that was the situation in which he felt natural.

Sherlock's created reality could not fit the world's mold. Adjustments had to be made—the addition of a daughter, the move to John's flat—but the core was crucial to remain untouched. Father and son. It was the only piece keeping his unhinged mind stable, and the only way to find out exactly why the reality had been created at all.

"You've had an accident," John coaxed. "You were hurt and your mind deleted and shifted some things in the repair. There's absolutely no reason to feel guilty, but it's completely understandable to be confused."

The detective nodded, obviously not fully convinced, and looked again at his newly discovered sister. John smiled at the thought; before the accident, Sherlock had actually been quite good with Allison. Awkward, yes, but surprisingly affectionate—only in the presence of John and Mary, no others. It was a common occurrence for Sherlock to strut around the flat, Allison hanging off his hip as he rattled off his latest puzzle or deduction.

"Hello," he said awkwardly, and Allison smiled. But she remained silent, as was her personality.

Mary laughed despite herself and made her way to the kitchen. "Dinner'll be out soon, loves."

"Go wash up, Sherlock," John instructed.

He frowned. "But I'm not hungry."

Apparently bodily harm and the loss of thirty years hadn't changed the detective's disposition to food. John sighed. "I wasn't asking. You're supposed to eat with your medication anyhow. Go on."

Sherlock grumbled something underneath his breath but obeyed, averting his eyes when John shot a warning glance. The doctor collapsed at the dining room table as the detective disappeared into the washroom.

"You're doing well," Mary said quietly as she set the table.

"I hid his wallet and phone in our dresser," John warned. "God knows what'll happen if he sees 'Holmes' on his ID. Lestrade's filling everyone in on the situation for us, but giving an eight year old a phone may not be in anyone's best interest."

Mary filled the four glasses with water. "Just try to enjoy the day with him. It's not often you'll see him so sweet and obedient. You ought to take him to his flat tomorrow. He's dying to, and the familiarity may do him good. Maybe even jog some memories."

The conversation ended as Sherlock limped his way to a seat. "Dad?"

"Hmm?" John sat his daughter on the chair next to him and began making her plate.

"What's your first name?"

"John. Why?"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought so. That's what Lestrade said, but when I first woke up, he asked me if I remembered a John. Why would he say that instead of father?"

John shifted in his seat. "I'm sure it was just a slip of the tongue. He calls me John, you know, and sometimes you call me by my first name when you're being difficult."

Sherlock nodded, accepting the lie and picking at his food as though he was being forced to eat an expired meal.

Yes, John Watson was feeling out of his depth. But that's exactly where he thrived.

* * *

**As always, please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

"I said _brush your teeth_."

"I'm not tired! And I don't even have a toothbrush!"

"Yes you do, it's the packaged green one. Now."

Sherlock groaned and stomped his way to the bathroom. John followed and watched as the pain in his neck ripped the plastic and spitefully brushed the living daylights out of his teeth.

The doctor leaned against the door, nose pinched and headache brewing. Formulas and data still flew out of the detective's mouth by the dozen; old cases were mentioned with characteristic arrogance; pedestrians were swiftly judged as they passed the living room window. Yet the same individual capable off all this and more couldn't be trusted to eat dinner and brush his teeth.

"There." Sherlock spit into the sink, ruffled his hair a bit in the mirror (totally unaware of the adult reflection, it seemed), and scuttled away.

John caught him by the ear. "No you don't," he declared, dragging the indignant child to the living room sofa. Swiftly Sherlock was made to lie down and covered with a blanket. "It's nearly midnight, Sherlock; Allison and Mary are already asleep. I've let you stay up late enough. No more excuses."

"I haven't looked at a case all day." Sherlock stuck out his lower lip. "You know I can't be cooped up, Dad. My mind goes stagnant!"

"Yes, yes, I'll find you a case in the morning. We'll even visit Baker Street, alright? You're still not well, though, and you need rest. It's time for bed."

John began to walk away but was hit in the back of the head with a pillow.

_Okay_.

"Sherlock!"

"Why does Allison get her own room?" Sherlock sat up unapologetically and swung his legs to the edge. Apparently the sweet and obedient child Mary had foreseen only made minor appearances. "I'm older, aren't I, and bigger."

John placed the pillow at the end of the couch and forced the detective's head down. "Because I trust you to stay put. Alright? Now, please, I'm exhausted. Get some rest."

Sherlock made a face but snuggled underneath the covers. John sighed and switched off the light, grateful for the familiar bed waiting for him at the end of the hall.

"Dad?"

John cursed. Only two steps away.

"You've turned the light off."

"Yes?"

The room was quiet for a moment; John could just make out steeple fingers gathering underneath Sherlock's chin, the smallest twitch of his nose. Oh. The doctor cleared his throat and flipped the nearest lamp on. "Right. Sorry."

"I'm not afraid," Sherlock said quickly. "I don't remember Allison, though from my observations today I imagine her to be quite the klutz. I'd rather her not take a fall. You understand."

John stood silent for a moment, grateful that Sherlock's gaze was off him. Such formal language to express such an innocent, embarrassed plea. In the soft yellow light John could hardly miss the fragile expression, utterly wounded, too closely resembling the look he'd seen just earlier that week.

* * *

_Books. Everywhere. And files, and papers, and syringes and boxes and tubes. John stormed through the living room, kicking a box out of the way a little harder than necessary, and rummaged through the kitchen cabinets._

_He didn't bother to address the detective diligently working on something over the sink. It was doubtful that Sherlock even realized he was there, and even if he had, John was in precisely the mood to reciprocate for all the times he himself had been ignored. Now where was his mug?_

_The cabinet slammed shut as he ran his fingers through his hair. It wasn't fair. The hypochondriac he'd blown off at work a week ago was now actually very ill, and oh boy were John's bosses going to hear about this one. Not to mention the three incompetent interns he was trying and failing to train. His flat was hectic, filled with toys and wives that were just a little too friendly, a little too comforting for his bursting and itching personality, and no sooner had he arrived home before mumbling some excuse about needing air. Mary understood, of course. She always understood. Which only fueled John's hungry mind._

_How long had it been since he'd broken into a crack house? Chased criminals up the Thames? Fueled his instinct for survival on pure adrenaline? Fed his desire for danger that was carefully hidden until his wife's past came out?_

_Too long._

_ "__Where's my cup?" John seethed, finally admitting that Sherlock's lack of acknowledgement was getting to him._

_It took a few moments, but the detective looked up at John—though not really looking at him, now, because otherwise he would have known that what he was about to say next was really not in the best timing—and shrugged his shoulders. "Which is yours? This one?" He held out a short porcelain cup, which was of course the doctor's. But instead of beaming the sterile white that was its nature, the mug sported several splotches of blood and a small black circle that looked like some sort of ring worm._

_John snatched it instantly but, upon feeling the coagulated texture, threw it back into the sink, cursing as the handle chipped._

_ "__I'm testing the length of time it takes to—"_

_ "__Shut up." John stormed into the living room but flung back around. "You are not what I need today, Sherlock. Apparently a moment's peace is just too much to ask for."_

_The detective's eyebrows shot up. "No, you're here because you're bored with 'peace,'" he shot back, gleaning every bit of information he could off the doctor's rigid form. "I would have thought a ludicrous experiment would be right up your alley at the moment! Had I been simply reading the newspaper, your reaction would likely have been even more severe. Bad day, was it?"_

_ "__No. Stop it. I don't need you to deduce me or tell me what's wrong with me, and I certainly don't need to see my property abused by a ridiculous man! Why do you have you be such a _freak_?"_

* * *

Sherlock slept soundly that night, nuzzled up against the back of the couch.

John Watson, eyes staring at the ceiling and mind reeling, did not.

* * *

**As always, reviews are more than welcome (Also, if there's a scene you'd like to see with young Sherlock and Daddy John, let me know and I may try to fit it in!). As a warning, I will be out of the country for a good part of August. I'll do my best to keep posts coming, but no promises! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock jumped at the knock at the door, his attention immediately diverting from the television to John. The doctor sighed and glanced at Mary; the detective had been extremely needy and nervous the past few days. He removed Sherlock's grip on his upper arm, and walked towards the door.

"Would you care to explain?"

John's form grew rigid as the elder Holmes entered his flat, lowered his umbrella, and took a seat in the chair opposite Sherlock. His heart dropped.

"Mycroft, he can't—"

He put a hand up and turned his attention towards his brother. "Hello, Sherlock. How are we feeling?"

Sherlock's eyes brushed over him for several seconds before he looked at John for answers. John couldn't help but comparing him in that moment to a lapdog growling at an unwelcomed stranger. His hair was mangled and shoulders stiff, but his eyes betrayed this look of hostility for want of protection.

"You don't remember me, then." Mycroft watched as Sherlock's face softened with shame. "No, I didn't think you would. You always have a way of deleting important facts, don't you?" He turned to John. "I've read the medical report. Thought I'd drop by."

"In private, Mycroft. Please," John said, though it was hardly a request.

Mycroft relented and followed John into the kitchen. "I'm afraid you may be out of your depth, Dr. Watson."

"What's wrong with you?" John yelled in a whisper. "You know full well the best thing is to go along with his reality. If he had remembered you, everything would have crumbled. These things take sensitivity, Mycroft, which I dare say isn't your area of expertise."

"You're coddling him. Letting him revert into days of no responsibility and total dependency. It isn't healthy." He shook his head. "Look at him. Watching mindless television, hanging onto you for dear life. It isn't who he is."

"Oh, and you're a specialist, are you?"

"I'm his _brother_, John. His actual blood. Don't pretend you know more because he's subconsciously offered you that role."

"Well someone has to be there for him!" John checked his volume and sat in exhaustion. "Sorry. Look, I know the situation's unorthodox. I don't know if I'm handling it the right way—I've had the same doubts—but shattering his perception will only hurt him. If he needs me to be his father right now, then I'll do it."

Mycroft straightened his umbrella strands for a moment. "Many people take one look at Sherlock and imagine him a product of a traumatic past. But you've met our parents. Tedious and dull, yes, but loving. Sure, he was teased as a child and couldn't make friends, but that's who he is. He accepted his identity and moved on." He paused and rested his eyes on the doctor. "Don't try to fix something that isn't broken. Sherlock is the way he is. Period. Why he's reverted, I don't know. But quite honestly, I imagine it has much more to do with anatomical reasons than psychological."

John set his jaw. "What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying, I'm stating it outright. Don't view this as a chance for healing. There's nothing to fix in him. There's no deep wound that he's battling or that you need to mend during this odd time. We all have scars, but Sherlock's made him who he is. Take those away, and there's nothing left."

"He's more than that," John bit.

Mycroft sighed and stood. "It's your choice to believe. The hospital put him under your care. So do what you think right—even if it's going along with a lie. Just remember my warning, John. My brother is facing a mental and medical issue, not a heart one. Don't read into it; you'll only be disappointed."

The elder Holmes made his way through the flat and didn't turn around until arriving at the front door. "Do get better, Sherlock," he said, and then he was gone.

The detective made a face at the door. "I don't like him. Who was that?"

"No one to worry about." John sat next to him and fiddled with his shirt sleeves, trying to lose his mind in the show. "Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you…doing okay? I mean, is there anything bothering you? Anything you need to talk about? I'm here for you, you know."

Sherlock slumped further into the couch and seemed to consider. "I'm itching for a case, but you're looking for one with Greg, aren't you? You always are. So something'll come up. Allison's been following me around all afternoon, and you've made me eat _three_ times today, which really isn't fair." He frowned. "That man…Mycroft? He told me to get better. Am I not already? I mean, I know that my memory of Allison aren't complete, and other things are still a bit foggy, but I'm okay, aren't I? Or is there more wrong with me?"

John let the detective lean into him. It was a good question—one that he couldn't quite answer yet.


	6. Chapter 6

John hated leashes for children. They were demeaning, he thought, and surely—surely—a parent could be trusted to keep enough control of their son or daughter to render such a devise obsolete. When Allison began walking, he understood just a bit more, but pride dictated that such a purchase was unnecessary.

Walking down the street with Sherlock, however…Well, he would have paid a pretty penny for one.

"Sherlock…Watson! Sherlock! Get back here!"

The detective huffed, crossed his arms, and threw himself onto nearby stairs. So far ahead had he been that it took John a good minute to catch up. "Geez, Sherlock, you're going to make me hold your hand, aren't you? For goodness sake, stay by my side."

"But you're walking so _slowly_," he whined, already on the move again. John groaned and tried to keep up, wishing he hadn't mentioned that they were meeting Lestrade at a crime scene. He'd keep it a surprise next time.

"What do you think it is?" Sherlock was saying. "A triple homicide would be lovely, but I could live with a double."

"Sherlock, tone down the joy." Though immediately obeyed, John grimaced at the idea of a child being this excited about murder. But it was high time they both got out of the apartment.

They walked in silence for a few moments before Sherlock suddenly stopped. "Dad? When Lestrade called you, did he say who else would be there?"

"No, I suppose the usual. Why?"

He crinkled his nose and took a step back. "I don't know if we should go."

John crossed his arms and leaned against a tree planted along the sidewalk. Despite his best intentions this morning, Sherlock still looked like he'd just crawled out of bed hung over—wrinkly clothing, swirling hair, jelly smudges on the inside of his wrist. More striking, though, was that the atmosphere of agitation hadn't yet dissolved. The detective was still wary of anything that moved, still careful to avoid eye contact with strangers—not even to deduce them—and continued to follow John everywhere around the house.

"Sherlock, two seconds ago you were bouncing down the street about having a case to solve. Lestrade's waiting for us, now come on."

He wrung his hands. "I don't want to go."

"Care to explain _why_?"

"Plenty of reasons," he stammered. "Scotland Yard can't depend on me forever, you know, and…and Mary might need help with Allison. Family comes first, Dad, that's what you always say."

"Nice try."

Sherlock kicked a rock. "Sally'll be there."

"And?"

"And nothing. I just don't want to see her, okay?"

John sighed and motioned for Sherlock to stand in front of him. "Listen. I know you and Sally don't always get along, but a case needs to be solved. Yeah? Now what's more important?" Sherlock said nothing. "Look, Lestrade's talked to the team. They all know that you're…recovering. They'll be nicer than usual, I'm sure. Nothing to worry about."

"Fake niceness is worse than being rude," he mumbled.

"We'll debate that on the way. Come on."

The two quickly made their way to the scene, a small warehouse only four blocks away. Triple homicide, as Sherlock had hoped. He solved it in twelve minutes.

"Terrifying, almost," Lestrade muttered to John as they took off their medical wear. "Almost like he's better than normal. Like there's less stuff for him to dig through."

John nodded but frowned at the implication. "Greg, by the way, where's Donovan? She's usually the first one here on this sort of thing."

"Asked her not to come. I told you I'd protect Sherlock, didn't I? Meant what I said."

John bit his inner lip and watched as Sherlock showed one of the forensic scientists his arm cast. "I appreciate it, but don't worry about it. Protection might not be the best option right now."

"Oh? Talking to Mycroft, I see."

"How—"

"He came up to the office just yesterday. Of course he did. Look, John, I know the guy cares about Sherlock, but he doesn't know what he's talking about. Treating him normally and carrying on like nothing's changed…it won't work. His mind's sensitive, isn't it, and people like Sally are just triggers." He watched Sherlock produce a Sharpie for a signature and smiled. "Thing is, I don't think he was excited today for the case. I think he's just happy to be around people, around you."

John coughed. "Mycroft warned me about reading into him."

"Sherlock reads people for a living. Maybe it's his turn to be read." Greg shrugged and pat John on the back. "I'll call you if there's any other interesting cases, but I think his time would be better enjoyed with the mundane right now. I could be wrong, but give it a go."

The doctor made eye contact with the detective across the room and received a smile. Maybe he'd give it a try.


	7. Chapter 7

"Yes, yes, alright. Just sit still a moment."

John sighed as his plea was ignored and the detective ran through 221B like a bloodhound.

"_This_ is home," Sherlock exclaimed, giving his skull a slight nod. He swooshed around the flat in excitement, touching everything as though needing to know it was still there. "My equipment, my files. Untainted. I do wish we hadn't moved after you married Mary; this place has a much better atmosphere."

That hadn't been how John had explained the move, but he didn't argue.

"Do you know," Sherlock continued distractedly, "I hated where I lived before I met you. Abhorred it, really."

"Oh?" John readjusted himself, fighting any signs that would show his interest. Sherlock didn't talk about his life before the doctor had entered it. The question was always skirted around or, at the very least, the detective insisted he had deleted the era.

"Of course I did. Not knowing who my father was? Or if I even had one…awful. And the flat…Goodness." Sherlock's face tensed, perhaps at the realization that he'd been talking of personal matters. He quickly sat himself down with an old newspaper.

"So, in your memory…I'm your father, but you didn't meet me until later?

Sherlock lowered his eyebrows. "Is that not right?"

"No, it's all good, I just want to know how many of the details you remember. I mean, it must be odd, since…you're eight."

"Eight and a half."

"Eight and a half."

Sherlock shuffled his weight and glanced out the window. He'd insisted on sporting a t-shirt (John's, actually) with khakis and dress shoes, only emphasizing his childlike qualities. His mouth opened several times but always clamped when words would fail. "I'm clever, Dad, aren't I?" he finally said.

"Cleverest chap I've ever known."

"But what else am I?" His eyes met John's. "I can't remember when I met you; I only know that there was a time without. Time lost its power, its concreteness, when I found you. Or you found me, I can't remember. But there's a definite break, a bad and a good with you as the line. On the left I was clever, but no one seemed to like it. Everyone else seemed to have something, someone to be clever or athletic or beautiful _for_. What good was my talent if I had nothing to use it for? I didn't know."

John listened in silence.

"I lived alone in this inner city apartment. Surviving. Eventually Lestrade noticed my talent and let me help out every once in a while, but it wasn't enough. He liked me for what I did, not who I was. My mind, not me. Eventually he got there and that's great, but you search for something automatic, don't you? I mean, shouldn't there be someone who believes in you the second they lay eyes on you? Who doesn't see you as an acquired taste?

"So I turned to what I could. Drugs, alcohol, sex, money, anything that could satisfy whatever this void was. None of it worked, of course. I've told you all this before."

_No you haven't._

_ How do you rationalize these experiences with such a low age?_

"But then you showed up, there on the right side, and I realized all those people who said I'd never have a father were wrong. You made me cleverer, even though that wasn't what was important to you. You just wanted me to be okay. Took me in and cleaned me up. Saved me in a lot of ways, even after I do something stupid like getting mauled by a band of robbers."

John stared at the floor for a while, not at all phased by the silence or even noticing it, only trying to wrap his head around the details. "Those are some very profound thoughts for a child," he managed.

"I've lots of experience," Sherlock answered quietly.

"Before I met you, then." John cleared his throat and tried to gain complete control of his emotions. "Did I ever tell you what I was doing before I got you?"

"Leading battles." Sherlock smiled and joined John on the couch, resting his head in the doctor's lap. John took a deep breath, reminding himself of the new situation and that it would probably never feel normal. That this philosophical tale had come out of the mouth of this incessant child. "I am quite lucky. A war hero for a father."

"I never earned any special honors," John dismissed.

"But your sacrifices, and your scars. That's how you explained it to me, anyway. You had to fight in the war, and I had to fight my own battles. Then, when we were both about to give up, we united. It's a good thing we didn't meet each other sooner, because then we wouldn't know just how lucky we are."

John laughed and removed a black lock of hair away from Sherlock's face. He had thought innocence filled those eyes but knew now he had been mistaken. Inside that mind was both pain and redemption. Wisdom finally bursting at the seams through childlike expression.

"Yes, very lucky we are."

And boy was Mycroft going to hear about it.


	8. Chapter 8

There was one too many bodies in the bed that morning.

John groaned as he rubbed his eyes and found the disheveled man curled between him and his wife. Already awake, Mary was sitting against the headboard, buried in a book with the slightest grin of amusement playing on her lips.

"This is getting ridiculous," John said, though he kept his voice low enough not to wake him. Mouth opened, nose crinkled against the sheets, hair mangled every which way. Even a soft snore escaped the detective's nostrils. Utterly ridiculous.

Mary turned a page. "He climbed in around two last night. He heard something outside and freaked out; I couldn't understand half what he was crying about. It was easier just to let him sleep here."

"We don't even let Allison sleep with us."

"Allison's much more independent," Mary said with a smile. "You've got to admit he looks absolutely precious."

John groaned once more and checked his alarm clock. No reason not to start the day; without work or the usual flow of cases, his need for activity was quickly increasing. Keeping Sherlock cooped up all day was never a good idea either. He pressed against Sherlock's shoulder a little harder than necessary until eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning," John said, flatly, before crossing his arms.

Sherlock stretched and curled himself back into a ball, wiggling his icy figure closer to John's legs as he pulled the sheets around his shoulder. He muttered something incomprehensible before closing his eyes again.

"You have to sleep in the living room tomorrow."

The eyes opened at the strict tone.

"No more of this, okay? You're…big enough to sleep on your own. What scared you last night?"

He leaned his head on John's knee and took a tired breath. "There was a dog outside," he slurred. "I don't understand, Dad. I don't understand."

"Don't understand what?" He pulled Sherlock up by his arm and leaned him against the headboard, trying to be patient as the detective fully woke up. As consciousness returned, so did fragments of irritation.

"Where is he?" Sherlock looked from John to Mary, father to mother, not bothering to dismiss any whining in his voice. "I don't know how I've forgotten. This stupid injury, maybe, I don't know. But you have to explain now."

"Sherlock, I can't have a conversation with you unless I know what's going on. Who are you talking about?"

"Where's Redbeard?"


End file.
